


If The Stars Could Speak (They'd Tell Me To Sleep)

by faerie_wings



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Apologies, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Bard Jaskier | Dandelion, Character Study, Extended Metaphors, Forgiveness, Friendship, Gen, Inspired by Music, Metaphors, Music, POV Second Person, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Platonic Soulmates, Post-Canon, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Pre-Canon, Spy Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:20:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26223280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faerie_wings/pseuds/faerie_wings
Summary: You are a child of the stars, for iron is carried in the blood that sings for the stars, and it is forged only in stars. You are made of starstuff, and you sing the stars' song.---Dandelion cannot sleep, the stars won't let him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Kudos: 19





	If The Stars Could Speak (They'd Tell Me To Sleep)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from How Can I Love You? By Yellow Days
> 
> Quotes in text from; i feel like chet by mxmtoon
> 
> A bridging of Netflix canon (post season 1) and book canon (pre Blood of Elves). Yes, he's called Dandelion here (I actually prefer Jaskier), he's blond, and he has the hat. Canonically; Dandelion's horse is called Pegasus, he was a spy, The Stars Above the Path is one of his most famous compositions, "the mountain" is from Netflix canon. 
> 
> Dijkstra is the head of Redanian Intelligence.

Sleepless nights forebode sleepless days. Anxiety rushes through veins as adrenaline pumps through arteries, empowering the fight or flight response. Sleepless nights forebode anxious days. 

Anxious days lead to sleepless nights, an endless cycle. They say, cease and desist, but you cannot, for the stars sing to you. 

You stay awake hoping to find the truth - a hopeless romantic afraid of commitment. The stars sing their melodies as you sing their praises. You sing of the  _ stars above the path _ as your wanderlust reaches its peak.

Your blood sings for the stars, sings for the night air you breathe, sings for the crunch of shrubbery under your feet. You cannot sleep.

Sleep is for fools who wish to get robbed, you justify. Sleep is for those that cannot hear the stars. Sleep is not for you, for the stars sing their song, and you cannot sleep. Not since the white wolf howled his last note. Not since the moon's sorrow overpowered your own.

The stars sing to you, and you sing back. You sing of the endless days and endless nights, the disquiet of missing another so close to your soul. You sing of the nostalgia of past days, journeys you had taken that you wish you could once again take.

The stars welcome you among their number as you sing them stories of the day. The hot sun and the lively towns. The stars welcome you as you sing stories of love. 

You love the white wolf who howled his last note. The discontent wrenches within your heart as you wish upon a shooting star that one day you will see him again. Today is not that day.

Sleepless nights forebode sleepless days. You cannot sleep. Your bed is missing one, and your heart is ripped in two. You used to be more than you are - but now you cannot sleep.

Sleep brings dreams, dreams of happier times and of shared moments. You wake in tears. You cannot sleep for you would not wish to wake, and you would not hear the stars as they sing their melodies.

Come home. You cannot. Come home. You cannot go back among the stars, for the beckon you to sleep, and they miss you dearly. 

You were once of the stars, and you came down to earth. You miss your siblings, and you miss your white wolf. You cannot sleep, for the only comfort you gain is in the night.

Numbness spreads as darkness gathers. Your vision is clouded and your emotions are dull. You miss the wolf, but this is no time for inaction. 

War is on the horizon, the stars whisper, prepare yourself, they say. You do. You prepare the only way you can, as you sing your love far and wide, welcoming anyone with any information.

The white wolf is with Another. A girl. The sorceress is nowhere to be seen. War is on the horizon. You knew that. 

The black ones are ready, and you are not. The black ones will fight until the death, they will not show mercy. You will support the opposition, the stars insist.

You do not sleep, there is not enough time. War is on the horizon, and you must warn the people. You cannot sing of war, so you sing of wariness, but also of love. You were made to bring comfort, and bring comfort you will.

You hurry fast, there is not enough time. Anxiety rushes through veins as adrenaline pumps through arteries, empowering the fight or flight response - you warn the men in charge, you warn the kings and the advisors and you bring hidden messages in your songs. The squirrels shoot down messengers, you are not a messenger.

You are a spy, for you are just a bard with a classical bardic training, and you were made for subterfuge. You are in no way subtle, but that is not what you were made to be. 

You were made to bring comfort, and it pains you to sing of sorrow. Prepare yourself, you recite, for the war will be long and hard, and the stars look down with curious intentions. This will be one for the ages. 

You ride long and hard, Pegasus tiring but never waning. You cannot sleep, there is not enough time, and the stars sing, hurry, you mustn't tarry long. You cannot linger, there are lives in the balance, and you cannot let them down.

Your white wolf is on a mission, and the girl is being taught all there is to know. All  _ she  _ is to know. The sorceress is determined.

You are dissatisfied, nostalgia singing in your veins as the days of simple companionship are over. You are just a romantic, and your days are numbered. You are in search of the truth, and the stars will not tell you. 

Your blood sings for the stars, it sings for the night sky, and it sings for your dearest friends. For the white wolf is your dearest friend, and you are his. You sing for each other; your destinies are intertwined as much as they are apart.

There is too much at stake to overthink, yet you are prone to thinking deeply. You cannot help that you think about the strangest subjects - you suppose it is what made your Oxenfurt education so successful for the professors reward such thinking.

There you go again, as the thundering of Pegasus' hooves lull you into a trance. Pegasus rides fast and hard, the information you have is valuable, and time sensitive. You cannot let it go to waste. You pass towns and crossroads, no news reaching your ears.

You ride hard and fast, the wind whistling in your ears, blowing through your hair, blond strands ticking your skin, your feathered hat missing from your head, and your clothes a dull brown and grey. You cannot be recognised. 

You stop to let Pegasus rest for a half-day, you are only as fast as your horse. You take a seat in the village tavern, and your mind wanders as it is prone to do.

You haven't slept in a while, thoughts occupying your head. Anxiety is something that you are used to nowaday, the lack of sleep triggering a bone deep fatigue only exacerbated by the threat of war from the black ones.

"Dandelion." A deep voice rumbles above you, the white wolf, his visage has not changed much, apart from a prominent scar cutting through his left eye, bright amber irises still as intense as ever. 

"White Wolf," you have no need for flowery language, and you are exhausted, "To what do I owe the pleasure?" You cannot help the biting tone accompanying the words, you have been steeped in bitterness since the day on the mountain top, despite the overall success of the day. 

Pale brows draw together, "An apology," his voice cracks slightly, sincerity dripping from his being, "I need to apologize." He continues. You have already forgiven him. The stars have not let you sleep, singing their song, but the white wolf's lullaby brings peace to your soul. He completes you, he will let you sleep.

"You are already forgiven, dear Witcher," a smile plays on your lips, your eyes kind as the poison is drawn from your wound - it may have been left a long time but it will still heal. Bitterness may still linger in you, but you are not made of it.

You never were made of bitterness. You are a child of the stars, for iron is carried in the blood that sings for the stars, and it is forged only in stars. You are made of starstuff, and you sing the stars' song.

You rocket out of the tiny village that sits along the Pontar, you make your way for Redania, heart lighter. Sleepless nights forebode anxious days, but you are not filled with anxiety anymore. 

Your blond hair whips across your face, Pegasus thundering towards Redania, a message for Dijkstra painted on your lips, and a hidden assignment for the princess' safety. 

You still sing of the  _ stars above the path _ , for the wanderlust never leaves you, and the nostalgia still cleaves a place in your heart. The stars still sing to you their mournful tune. But they speak truth (they tell you to sleep, for sleepless nights forbode sleepless days, and you cannot afford to lose time.)


End file.
